Icy roads
by Jo the Phoenix
Summary: A paramedic encounters Logan.


Okay, a serious fic. A bit of gore. It doesn't bother me any, but it might for some. If you're not sure you want to be here, I suggest pressing the "back" button. Better safe than sorry. 

This was inspired by my studying to be an emergency medical technician. I was wondering what would happen if I encountered Logan. Here goes.

"Dispatch, E-12 here." I spoke into the two-way as Brennan pulled the ambulance away from the farm house.

"Go ahead, E-12." Eileen chirped; the new girl, any vetran com-unit dispatcher would never chirp. 

I ignored her cheer and informed her that my unit was available for dispatch, the patient had refused treatment. We were on our way back to headquarters, estimated time: 12 minutes.

"Copy that, E-12. Clear." She'd noticed my coldness and responded appropriately. Good. A quick learner.

My partner, Brent Brennan, sighed irratibly at my conduct, but didn't say anything. He knew that I got stressed when someone refuses transport and treatment. This guy had very loudly, and opinionedly refused any help from us, and I was pissed off. Well, shit, the guy had been bleeding like a stuck pig. He'd had an incident with his work shop table-saw and sliced his arm pretty good. His wife, a frantic young woman, called the ambulance. She wasn't able to drive with her bad eyesight, and with the highways as bad as they are this time of year, she thought it better to call us. Her husband was furious. He took it out on me an' Brennan vocally, very loudly and very rudely, might I add.

So, that ticked me off. I don't know how Brennan deals with it. Prob'ly goes home and pounds out his frustrations on his punching bag. Prob'ly why he's so built.

And speaking of built, I noticed a guy on a motorcycle ahead of us with enough muscle for three guys.

"No helmet," Brennan clicked his tongue.

"Save it, pal." I said, knowing excuses why a helmet couldn't be worn, having used all of them at one time or another, while either biking or in-line skating.

"Just 'cause you don't want your pretty pretty _hair_ messed up…" He taunted.

"I said save it!" I gave up my pissed off mood at his teasing and threw him one of my patented mock glares. The guy knows exactly how to make me laugh. Too bad he's married.

I was about to get into it with him about _his_ "pretty pretty hair" when he started and braked hard, with a "Holy shit!"

I snapped my gaze back out the windshield in time to see the motorcycle guy hit the ground, hard. 

"Oh, shit…" I grabbed the jump kit from the back and hopped out of the ambulance with Brennan close behind carrying the back board and C-collar.

"What happened?" I asked Brennan as we reached the guy. He explained that he'd hit the patch of ice, fishtailed, layed it down (dropped the bike to aviod a more serious accident), hit the guardrail with the back wheel and flew off the bike. 

"Goin' too fast for these road conditions," Brennan panted beside me, "And no helmet." He added.

Already beginning my initial assessment, I knelt by the guy. Male, about mid-30's, a trauma patient.

"Stabilize," I muttered, to find Brennan already providing it, a hand on each side of the head. I placed the immobilizing collar around the guys neck gently and we slid the backboard under him. "Good." I began to judge the patient's mental status. I tried a sternal rub after speaking in his ear yielded no response.

Nothing. Completely unresponsive. I tried again, watching his face (or what was left of it, anyway. Hell, it looked like dog food, for God's sake.) Nothing again. In an unresponsive patient, first thing: get an open airway. I openend the jump kit, my hand moving automatically to the oropharangeal airways, hard plastic tools used for holding the tongue away from the back of the throat. Brennan grabbed the suction unit and got rid of most of the blood while I measured the oro-airway and readied the bag-valve-mask in case it was needed. 

After inserting the airway, I looked for severe bleeding I might nave missed while I took a pulse. The pulse was a little weak, but it got stronger. I looked up, startled as Brennan said softly "Oh, my God." He got up and started backing away. 

"What the hell are you doing?" I demanded. "Get your ass back there!" I barked, but before I had finished the statement I heard a gagging. I lunged for the patients head, snatched the airway out of his mouth and noticed his face.

There wasn't a scratch on it. Not one. His eyes fluttered for the moment that I stared, transfixed, then opened, piercing me with an electric blue. I gasped as I saw expressions in those eyes. Fear, horror, rage. Finally a look of recognition; I was here to help. They fluttered shut as he moaned and tried to get up.

Astounded, I backed up, but came forward to help. Removing the cervical collar, he staggered forward. He rubbed his face, scrubbing with rough hands his cheeks and mutton chop sideburns. He shook his head as he laid eyes on his wreaked Harley. "Shit." He looked back at me and Brennan.

"Well, thanks a lot, guys." And he walked north on the highway.

I didn't know whether to laugh or scream or what. I did the only thing a human being could do when troubled or disturbed like I was. I fell to my knees and threw up all over the blood-stained snow.


End file.
